Disclaimer - I do not own Harry Potter, JK Rowling is the genius behind it - no matter how much I wish it was me, and judging from my pitiful bank balance I am making no profit from this either...gosh-darnit!
Author's Note -
This is a story that I adopted from bluedragonstorm and with her permission have begun regrafting it as my muse dictates :)
Rating wise, I have no idea where to go with this, T seems to be the safe medium but there will be a relationship at a later date so I may take it up to an M then if needed.
Please feel free to R&R, I'd love some feedback!
Chapter One - Haunted
My parents were never what you would call wealthy, we had just enough money to get by. My father owned a small workshop with a relatively good business - he sold hand crafted furniture made from the wood of the forest and did quite well by it. There was always wood left over when he had finished, so my mother came up with the idea to sell it as logs for the fire to the muggles in the next town. She could remember from her own household growing up how they were relied on for warmth in the home. My mother was a muggleborn, my father a pureblood. You would assume that there would be money and riches aplenty in a vault at Gringotts but my father's family was poor by pureblood standards, outcast years ago for the disgrace of raising a squib child.
I imagine the ancestors would be rolling in their graves now.
We didn't have much, a small house by the forest and my father's workshop situated a little ways away from the backdoor. On occasion my father took orders from Ollivander to gather the wild woods of the forest for crafting wands. We always ate better then, the commission paying for more luxuries.
My life should have been easy. Growing up helping my father in the shop, get my letter to Hogwarts, gain my magical education and go on to get a good job, get married, have children, provide for my family and grow old surrounded by them.
That's never going to happen now.
I rarely had a night of blissful sleep, I was forever plagued by nightmares of my accursed life. At least once a week I awoke with a scream in my throat and a deep ache in my bones from reliving the night I became a monster. At just six years old I was forced to take on its disgusting form. I learned later in my life that it was my father who had begun the chain of events that led to my descent down this path - a few poorly chosen words and I became the hunted. But I could not be angry with him, nor could I resent him. Instead, terrified as I was, I hoped and prayed for his and my mother's safety as I scrambled through the forest. Even now I cannot bring myself to resent my parents, they do not deserve this, after all who could love a monster?
It was cold. I found myself thinking of my coat, my warm, snuggly coat all alone on it's peg and wishing it was here with me. My attention whipped back to the present as I heard a twig snap not too far behind me followed by a menacing growl. I froze for a split second before instinct kicked in and I was running. I ran as fast as my feet would carry me, my lungs burning, I pushed faster still, I had to get away. I glanced back once out of necessity only to be horrified by the sight presented to me; a beast, a monster, was hot on my heels, saliva dripping from it's bared teeth, eager to bite, to tear, to rip me to shreds. I tried to think, afterall that was my strong point - quiet and bookish, my brain was my greatest weapon.
I knew I could not run for much longer, my heart was pounding in my ears and my muscles burned, my legs like jelly. It was clear that this monster, this beast, was enjoying the chase, it could have easily killed me the moment it had appeared in this forest with me. I needed somewhere to hide, somewhere it couldn't get me. Somewhere I was very unlikely to find in this forest - even if I did, I possessed enough common sense to see that it could just wait for me to come out. A brutal animalistic killer was hardly going to give up on its prey!
I kept running, pushing my body past its limits in my hope to survive. Running was the only thing I could do.
It was seconds later that I felt it's vicious jaws clamp down around my shoulder. Searing pain gripped me and a blood curdling scream was ripped from my throat as I sank into blessed darkness.
I sat up quickly and glanced frantically around the boys dormitory, praying that no-one else was awake. I was drenched in sweat and my heart was racing, pounding in my ears. My past haunting me even in my sleep, I could never get away - how could I? It was part of me now.
My eyes scanned the room one more time as I assured myself that all the others were asleep and took a breath, both to serve as relief at the peacefulness of the dorm room and to slow my heart rate, to calm me, disaster was not imminent. It was all that I needed, more questions from my friends.
It still amazed me that I was granted such a thing. That anyone would've wanted to be friends with the tattered boy who had sat alone on the train. I had been skinny and dressed in shabby clothes, new things just got ripped come full moon, it was pointless. My school robes were the first set of pristine new clothes I had got in years. But the three boys that had come into my compartment hadn't noticed (or hadn't mentioned it) for which I was grateful.
Sometimes I longed to tell them about my Lycanthropy in the hopes of gaining some relief, some support, some peace of mind from this dreadful burden that was thrust upon me from such a young age. A weight that gets significantly heavier after each full moon.
It was only my second year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and I was feeling more and more isolated from my peers. I was never ungrateful though, I knew I was lucky to even be here, monster as I was. If it wasn't for Dumbledore I would never have been granted a place at Hogwarts after becoming a werewolf. I wouldn't have the security of the Shrieking Shack to seek shelter during my transformations nor would I have access to the healing potions I desperately needed after every full moon. Yet even with the potions and the Shack I was aware of the danger. I put all of Hogwarts' occupants in danger with my very presence. My presence even had an effect on the villagers down in Hogsmeade, my screams prompted the rumours of violent spirits in the Shack earning it the reputation of the most haunted building in Britain. It made me hate myself, I was and always will be a monster, half human, half beast. There was only one man to blame - Fenrir Greyback. But what good would it do me to waste my energy hating him? I couldn't very well fight him as a boy of twelve! Besides, fighting him wouldn't take away the disease, the terrible pain of transformation nor the problems that developed from it. Nothing would. Nothing could help me. I felt my heart clench as I once again contemplated that fact.
No-one could love a monster; I would be alone until my death.
You would have thought that I had at least considered ridding the world of my presence, wished for the endless relief of death? I've read of other cases in which those infected committed suicide just to be rid of all of the….. well everything.
I never saw the use in wasting a life but I can relate. The crushing loneliness, the unbearable pain, the hatred, the labels - 'dark creature, filthy animal' and the jealousy. Envious of the lives of those who don't have to carry this curse.
My eyes burned with unshed tears as I thought about my parents and my friends, picturing them in my minds eye. Before I was bitten my parents were nothing less than caring towards me. They praised the way I sought out knowledge - "their little genius". They hugged me daily, frequently let me know how much they cared for me, greeted me with a gentle smile and a loving embrace. They protected me from bullies who proclaimed me a 'nerd' - as if being smart was a bad thing. My friends are much the same. I was a part of the group, accepted for who I am without so much as a questioning glance and I cherished their acceptance of me.
My friends meant the world to me;
James - loud, proud, handsome and he knew it.
Sirius - the joker, the prankster, the ladies man even from day one.
Peter - quiet, quieter than me, awkward around girls and prone to stuttering.
I committed every second to memory because I knew that if they ever found out the truth about me they would react just like my parents had.
Searching for ways to cure me and finding none.
They would grow steadily less caring and more afraid of me. They would become cold, no longer being able to stand being near me. They would pretend I no longer existed nor want anyone else to see or hear me, be relieved when I was no longer there. Or maybe they would tell the world and I would forever be running, trying to find a place to belong.
I felt something warm and wet drop onto my hand and realised I had tears tracking their way down my face. Angrily brushing them away I lay back down and stared at the ceiling. I may be doomed to be a monster, forever on the outside looking in, but I had no reason to wallow in it. Balling my fists, I fell back into restless, useless sleep.